


Knock Knock, Get The Door, It's Religion

by CaptainLeBubbles



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLeBubbles/pseuds/CaptainLeBubbles
Summary: The act of worship changes that being worshipped. Or if you prefer, divine retribution isn't always lightning bolts, and the Almighty has a sense of humor.





	Knock Knock, Get The Door, It's Religion

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [You Could Make A Religion Out Of This (please don't)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145743).
> 
> If I thought "demon worships angel" was a delicious idea, it was nothing what I felt when I thought of "angel worships demon right back".
> 
> Also, Crowley is at all times trying to make a human body behave like a snake body.

Contrary to popular belief, it is not necessary for angels to go around  _worshipping_  the Almighty. Worship is the reserve of humans, and they’re better at it anyway.

Let us set another scene: Crowley, draped over and around the back of a high-backed chair that contains Aziraphale, quietly reading a book laid out on the table in front of him. Crowley is half-heartedly peering over his shoulder, less interested in the book than in what Aziraphale is doing, and Aziraphale is tuning him out with the practiced ease of millennia.

This is not to say that Aziraphale is  _ignoring_  Crowley. He has simply set Crowley on the metaphorical backburner of his mind and is paying his attention to his book. Aziraphale is otherwise hyper-aware of Crowley’s presence, of his every move and breath and even the most minute changes in his position.

In  _fact_ , Aziraphale has been worryingly hyper-aware of Crowley ever since Crowley had, to use his words, ‘converted to Aziraphism’, even when he’s not around. It feels like something Aziraphale should be concerned with: as of right  _now_ , so soon after the averted Armageddon, so soon after a time when there was a very real chance there would be no Crowley to be aware  _of_ , he counts it as a relief. Besides, he’s been trying to keep Crowley closer to hand lately anyway.

If it persists he’ll look into it, but for the moment he’ll just enjoy this- this  _awareness_  of Crowley that he hasn’t ever experienced before.

“Don’t turn the page yet, I hadn’t got to the end,” Crowley whines, when Aziraphale attempts to do just so. “Hold on a minute.”

Aziraphale sighs, and waits, while Crowley leans more over the back of the chair, not coincidentally drawing himself nearer to Aziraphale, near enough that his chin is nearly resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. After a long moment, he says, “All right, you can turn over now,” and then shifts just enough to press a kiss to the shoulder below him while Aziraphale does so. The act, so tiny and insignificant in itself, sends a  _something_  through Aziraphale that he isn’t  _quite_  sure how to define.

“What is all this, anyway?” Crowley asks, almost confirming Aziraphale’s suspicions about his interest in the subject matter. If he isn't aware after this many pages, he hasn't been paying attention.

“It’s poetry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and something rustles through Crowley at that, the barest flicker of a  _something_  that Aziraphale can’t define. “Oscar Wilde. I’ve begun rebuilding my collection. Not the same as my first editions, of course, but…”

He trails off, not sure how to finish his sentence, and starts reading aloud instead, the poem a gentle murmur that has Crowley leaning closer just to hear him.

 _As oftentimes the too resplendent sun_  
_Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon_  
_Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won_  
_A single ballad from the nightingale,_  
_So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,_  
_And all my sweetest singing out of t-_

Crowley cuts him off at that: a breathless, slightly panicked, “Asssiraphale-”

-and now he has all of Aziraphale’s undivided attention, because there is something worrying in that tone. Something is  _wrong_.

“Dear boy-”

Crowley cuts him off again, this time shifting to butt his head against the side of Aziraphale’s face, just enough to startle him to silence, and then nuzzles him in an almost-apology at doing so and sending another jolt of that undefinable  _something_  through Aziraphale when he does. He can’t possibly be comfortable, twisting around the chair the way he’s doing, but Aziraphale suspects that isn’t what’s causing the confused discomfort radiating off of him right this moment.

“I feel weird,” Crowley admits, after this display. “Odd. Off. Something’s going on inside me that isn’t sss’possed to and I’m not sssure how I feel about it.”

“Are you sick?” Aziraphale reaches up to feel Crowley’s forehead, and Crowley leans into his touch like a moth who’s found the holy grail of porchlights. “You aren’t feverish.”

“M’not  _sick_ ,” he insists. “It doesn’t feel  _bad_. It almost feels  _good_. But it also feels  _weird_. Like the first time you eat food in a new body and you aren’t used to the tastebuds yet.”

Aziraphale purses his lips in thought at that, and a theory comes to mind. He changes his touch, stroking Crowley’s hair back from his face, and watches his entire expression shudder and change as he does.

“Is this- this  _feeling_  related to me at all?” He stills his hand and leans in enough to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and Crowley  _melts_  against him, humming a content affirmative. “Hmm.”

“‘Ssiraphale?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but I think I may have…  _converted_.”

“To what?”

“To  _you_.”

Crowley stills against him at that, and for a long moment Aziraphale wonders if he’s gone to sleep, and is about to wake him up and give him a proper talking to about not falling asleep to avoid conversations when Crowley moves, somehow managing to shift around the chair enough to cup Aziraphale’s face and surge forward into a kiss faster than Aziraphale can quite follow: he doesn’t quite have time to process  _that_ , though, before a wave of that undefinable  _something_  rocks through him, overpowering and dizzying and  _rapturous_.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s and just  _breathes_. His sunglasses are askew; Aziraphale can see his inner lids closed, his outer drooping, a lazy smile tugging at his lips that Aziraphale, unknowingly, mirrors.

“My dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, and that smile widens and Crowley’s hands shift so he’s cradling Aziraphale’s face.

“Mm. I think I like this feeling after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those not familiar, in Pratchett's writing there tends to be this thing about creating deities through worship rather than the other way around, which I in no way intended to use for _this_ setting but wrote itself in anyway. But I also rather like the idea of the Almighty saying "fine, you want to worship each other? Enjoy the side effects". Though for all we know, this is just part of the plan too.
> 
> Verse is taken from Oscar Wilde's _Silentium Amoris_ because what better form of worship than love poetry recited subconsciously _for_ and _to_ the object of your devotion?
> 
> eta: I have since been informed that snakes don't have double eyelids or even eyelids at all, but I like the line so it stands anyway.


End file.
